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Literature Text
Her hand pulled from mine β
slipped, like rainwater,
drifting through night;
her voice, confessed soft
sorrows as I dreamt.
"I no longer
believe
in storms like you."
slipped, like rainwater,
drifting through night;
her voice, confessed soft
sorrows as I dreamt.
"I no longer
believe
in storms like you."
A Bit of Love
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Literature
Hyperaware
I know the thumping of blood in my fingers,
the twinge in my back,
the tension behind my calves far too well.
The bristle of cold is too much
but the silence without the fan is suffocating.
My blankets are too heavy,
settled over my torso like the rock in my chest
but I can’t sleep without the weight.
This awareness is a manifestation of my longing;
for your hands in my hair,
your warmth at my spine,
your shoes on my floor.
This is what I feel when I can’t feel you –
palpitations, vibrations,
fixations that drive me to insomnia.
Only the trains are any comfort,
plowing away into the night
screaming here I am; there I go
Literature
Glass
At some point,
I stopped making eye contact.
I'm not sure how it happened
or why. I'm not sure if it's
some reflection of my
latent insecurities or
undeserved superiorities or
quiet anxieties.
But I am sure that
I miss the fleeting connection
on trains, buses, and sidewalks.
I miss the shape and color and
glint of golden gleam that used
to strike out across crowds at me.
My mother, my best friend, my lover -
what mysteries do I miss? What
is hidden in their second glances and
lingering stares?
I don't know because, at some point,
I stopped making eye contact,
even with the girl in the mirror.
Literature
pressure.
she was cracked in places only she could feel, and where the blood could only be tasted, and not seen.
her lips, fingertips and inside her chest. she learned that there are certain body parts prone to being cut or bruised, and her white laced knees could attest to that. but there comes a time when cutting your leg on the coffee table or pinching your stomach with your belt buckle, isn't an accident anymore. its something more, and you know it is. but you can go so long without ever admitting it to yourself, and even longer for anyone else.
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I'll probably expand this later, because I'm a masochist.
Β© 2013 - 2024 Sigma-Echo-Seven
Comments12
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Oh dear lord. Iβm at a loss for words: This is positively gorgeous. I donβt even know where to start explaining my emotions, or if I even possess the ability right now! You can expand this if youβd like, but I really like it at this length: It sends a more powerful message, for me. I also feel adding on to it would perhaps dampen the meaning, unless the following parts possessed the same intensity. There are also so many conflicting feelings here, I feel, supporting further thought even after the last line is read. Quite beautiful, really.
The ending, to me, just wrapped it up exquisitely. Often times, I find endings to leave the reader unsatisfied or still yearning for that extra "oomph!" This delivered that and more. It's consistent in its agony and in its strength through the whole entire piece, and the imagery in every line just carries you effortlessly to the end. The fact that you've left "believe" on its own line was something I actually applauded you for: It adds so much more, and the emphasis on this word really leads the readers thoughts in the right direction, I think.
Beautiful work, as seems to be a pattern of your work.
The ending, to me, just wrapped it up exquisitely. Often times, I find endings to leave the reader unsatisfied or still yearning for that extra "oomph!" This delivered that and more. It's consistent in its agony and in its strength through the whole entire piece, and the imagery in every line just carries you effortlessly to the end. The fact that you've left "believe" on its own line was something I actually applauded you for: It adds so much more, and the emphasis on this word really leads the readers thoughts in the right direction, I think.
Beautiful work, as seems to be a pattern of your work.